Science and Sorcery (9 page)

Or maybe he was just being silly.

“You want some?”  Mindy asked.  “I used the whole tin.”

“Yes, please,” Calvin said, rolling his eyes.  Mindy was such a
kid
.  Any fool could tell that an entire tin of soup was too much for one young girl.  Their mother would throw a fit if she found out that Mindy had wasted half the liquid.  She might even save it and insist on Mindy reheating the soup at a later date.  “And some toast as well, if you please.”

He waited while Mindy finished cooking lunch and then spooned it out into a pair of bowls, before sitting down facing him and tucking in.  Calvin ate slowly, enjoying the taste, while reading the newspaper again.  Mindy chatted about nothing until she finished eating, whereupon she brought up a friend of hers who believed in magic.  Calvin found himself listening with new interest as she spoke.

“Dana has this charm her Indian grandmother gave her,” Mindy informed him.  “She says that it protects her from evil.”

“Oh,” Calvin said.  He considered pointing out that they were supposed to be called Native Americans these days, before deciding that it was a waste of time.  “And does it actually work?”

“She says it does,” Mindy admitted, doubtfully.  “But she was also saying that her grandmother invited her to the reservation for a ceremony, one that might be very important for her future.”

“Oh,” Calvin said, again.  It was easy to fake disinterest, even though he had the feeling that Native American magic rituals might start working now.  Harrow had implied as much.  “Maybe you should ask her for a protective bracelet for yourself.”

Mindy glared at him.  “You’re not taking me seriously,” she protested.  “You’re
weird
.”

Calvin fought down the sudden hot surge of rage that threatened to consume him.  People had been calling him weird, or worse, for his entire life, yet it hurt the most coming from his kid sister. 
Mana
started to boil around him and he forced it down hastily, fearing that he might lose control and incinerate Mindy too.  He couldn't do that...slowly, the
mana
came under control, fading back into the background.  And then he opened his eyes, unaware that he’d even closed them, to see Mindy staring at him in horror.

“What...what happened?”

He would have cursed himself for a fool if there had been time.  Mindy was his kid sister; they shared the same genes.  Whatever had made him a magician might have done the same to her.  Maybe she didn't have the benefits of Harrow’s teachings, but he hadn't needed his tutor to kill three bullies.  He could teach her...but he couldn't take the risk of her tattling to their parents, or to the authorities.

Calvin concentrated, summoning a spell Harrow had taught him and holding it firmly in his mind.  “Nothing happened,” he said, casting the spell.  Harrow had warned him that mental manipulation required practice, for the human mind was often unpredictable and difficult to control, but there had been no time to practice on someone else.  “You saw nothing.  You came home, you ate lunch with me and then you went back to school.”

Mindy looked...dazed, almost hypnotised.  Calvin felt a flash of concern, one that was driven away by the grim awareness that he had come very close to exposing himself. 
This
power might be fun, if less spectacular than burning Moe to a crisp, but using it on his kid sister...

But there was no choice.  He told himself that he had no choice.

Afterwards, Mindy ran off to school, seemingly unaware that he’d cut a slice out of her memory.  Calvin hoped that the spell had worked, knowing that there was no way to be sure.  Even the Demon Headmaster had had trouble with hypnosis, and Mindy was smart.  Would she notice that her memories didn't quite make sense?

Shaking his head, he washed the dishes and headed upstairs.  Harrow had told him to practice and practice he would.  And then he’d work out how to get a living subject for his experiments.

Chapter Nine

Washington DC, USA

Day 7

“They don’t want me to come with you?”

“I'm afraid not,” Caitlyn admitted.  “I’m rather surprised they invited
me
to the meeting.”

Matt had to smile.  “I thought that you were going to
present
it,” he said.  “How could they have it without you?”

Caitlyn didn't smile.  “Politics,” she said sourly.  “The FBI got a jump on everyone else because I convinced Director Tomlinson that looking into the whole werewolf affair was a worthwhile use of our time and resources.  Everyone else dismisses the werewolves as just another example of people going crazy and looking for supernatural explanations, so when they can't ignore it any longer the FBI looks good and they look bad.

“But Tomlinson only put me in charge because he didn't take it very seriously himself,” she added.  “Now that they
know
that whatever is happening is serious, someone more senior might want to muscle in and take command.  Or the FBI might find itself pushed aside by the CIA, or NSA, or someone else.  They played politics with 9/11.  Do you really think they wouldn't play politics with this too?”

Matt heard the bitterness in her voice and nodded.  They’d been told that Caitlyn would be attending the meeting at the White House – and she’d been ordered to prepare a presentation for the President, if the President attended the meeting – but there had been few other details.  And, given that Caitlyn was the Special Agent in command of the FBI’s task force, that boded ill for the future.  Or perhaps it was merely a reflection of just how uncomfortable Official Washington felt with the whole affair.  Just like the media, the government had refused to take the matter seriously at first.  Why should they have? 
Matt
wouldn't have taken it seriously if he hadn't shot a werewolf.

“I’ll be wandering around Washington,” he said, with a grin.  “I’ll keep my cell phone with me at all times, so just call me when you get out of the meeting.”

“Have fun, and think of me when you’re admiring Lincoln’s statue or something,” Caitlyn said ruefully.  She smiled, suddenly.  “I’ve never been to the White House before, Matt.  I’d be excited if I didn't feel as if I was reporting to the principal for a lecture on misbehaver.”

“Good luck,” Matt said, seriously.  “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Caitlyn had put him up at her apartment in Washington, allowing him to sleep on the sofa at night.  Their relationship was growing deeper, even though it hadn't become sexual; they felt comfortable with one another, no matter what happened.  Besides, he reflected as Caitlyn left the apartment and closed the door behind her, it wasn't as if she had much for someone to steal.  Like Matt’s own apartment, Caitlyn’s apartment had a permanent air of transiency, as if the occupier knew that they might be leaving at any moment.  But then, FBI agents often had to move around the country on short notice.

He pulled on his jacket, strapped his holster to his belt and walked out of the door, closing it firmly behind him.  It had been years since he’d last visited Washington and there had been little time for sightseeing, so he’d decided that he needed to take a look at his country’s monuments before Caitlyn returned and he learned about what they were going to be doing next.  He had a feeling that they were going to be very busy.  The media had finally cottoned on to the legal implications of werewolves and vampires and had raised so much hysteria that he doubted that
any
werewolf would come forward willingly.  At least they knew that Joe Buckley hadn't hurt anyone.

Yet
, he reminded himself, grimly. 

It wasn't a long walk from Caitlyn’s apartment to the centre of Washington, but it was long enough for Matt to become convinced that he was being watched.  He’d always had good situational awareness – the NYPD tried hard to train its officers to be aware of their surroundings at all times – but this was different.  There seemed to be no one following him, at least as far as he could tell, yet the sensation refused to fade away.  One hand dropped to his holster as he started to glance behind him and scan the crowd, looking for the shadow.  It took several minutes before he realised that his follower was using...
something
to hide himself. 

Matt turned right into an alleyway and glanced around, looking for a place to hide.  He found it in a smelly door that clearly served as a toilet for drunkards when they were staggering home from the bars.  Ignoring the smell, Matt concealed himself and waited.  His shadow came up to the alley and turned into it, still intent on remaining in sight of Matt at all times.  Matt smiled, drew his gun, and stepped out of concealment.

“Stop right there,” he snapped.  “I...”

He broke off.  The shadow was strange.  He looked average, so average that there were no distinguishing features on his face at all; indeed, Matt felt his eyes starting to slide
past
the man, as if he wasn't quite there.  If Matt hadn't been able to sense his presence, in the same way he’d sensed the werewolf infection spreading through Joe Buckley, he would have questioned his own sanity. 

The shadow raised his hands, allowing Matt to see that they were empty.  “I apologise for following you,” he said.  His voice was...average.  It was somewhat disconcerting.  “My name is Golem.  And we need to talk.”

Matt didn't lower his gun.  “What are you?”

“I am Golem,” Golem said.  “We need to talk.”

“Right,” Matt said.  “And
what
, exactly, are you?”

Golem’s form seemed to shimmer.  When the shimmering was gone, Matt found himself staring at a humanoid figure shaped entirely from something that looked like clay.  The face was both human and very alien; bright red eyes burned in the eye-sockets, as if they were illuminated by a fire inside his skull, but the rest of his appearance was disconcertingly human.  Matt stumbled backwards, still keeping the gun aimed at Golem’s head.  But if he was made of clay, part of his mind asked, what good would a gun do?

“I am Golem,” Golem said, patiently.  “We need to talk.”

“So we do,” Matt agreed.  He was no stranger to interrogations, or to dealing with drugged up gangsters or people from very different cultures, but Golem seemed almost...
alien
.  It was easy to believe that a clay man would have thought patterns very different from the average human.  “I think...”

He hesitated.  “Can you disguise yourself again?  I need to take you somewhere safe.”

Golem’s form shimmered again, creating the illusion of an average man.  Now he
knew
that it was a disguise, Matt could appreciate just how neat a trick it actually was, however it was worked.  No one would look twice at Golem, or remember what he looked like, if they remembered him at all.  And yet the more Matt stared at him, the easier it was to see that something wasn't quite right.  The figure didn't seem to
move
like a human being. 

Back in New York, he would have taken Golem to the nearest police station; in Washington, he wasn't entirely sure what to do.  Caitlyn would have known, but Caitlyn was in the White House and he couldn’t call her there.  In the end, he led Golem back to her apartment, praying that he wasn't making a terrible mistake.  Golem thumped his way up the stairs – Matt hadn't realised just how heavy he was until he heard his footsteps – and into the apartment, showing little curiosity at all.  A human would have glanced around, just to see where they’d been taken.  Golem just walked into the apartment and stopped.

“Please, take a seat,” Matt said.  Even hidden behind some kind of magic spell, Golem was disconcerting.  “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I require no nourishment,” Golem informed him, as he sat down on a chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight.  Matt had the impression that he would have remained standing if he hadn't been asked to sit – and, unlike a human, wouldn't have found it insulting, or worrying.  “Your world is in terrible danger.”

Matt felt a chill running down his spine.  “What danger?”  He asked.  “And just what is happening to us?”

Golem’s protective illusion vanished.  Matt found himself staring into two bright red eyes, burning with a power beyond comprehension.  “The
mana
is returning,” Golem said, “and the Thirteen will not be far behind.”

He spoke the words as if he expected his listener to understand them, but they made little sense to Matt.  Or maybe they did;
mana
was an old word for power, hijacked by fantasy writers to represent the force behind magic.  For a moment, he wished that he had spent more time reading fiction rather than playing football at school; it might have prepared him better for coming face-to-face with a mythical creature.  But who were the Thirteen?

“I think you’d better start at the beginning,” he said.  “What exactly is going on?”

***

The Hunter didn’t understand.  Golem felt surprise, and then felt surprise at feeling surprise.  It was logical that the Hunter, far removed from his ancestors, would have no idea about his heritage.  So many generations had passed that it was unlikely that the Hunter realised that his bloodline could be traced back over thousands of years, right back to the original set of humans who had been...
altered
by sorcerers and turned into Hunters.  In fact, Golem’s research had suggested that recorded history simply made no room for magic.  He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping, waiting for the first trickle of
mana
to restore him, but every time he looked at the modern histories he added another thousand years to his estimate.

But that still left the problem of explaining what was happening to the modern world.

“Once, the land flowed with
mana
,” Golem said.  “Many thousands of years ago, the gods walked the world and sowed their seeds upon the land.  They created humanity and many other creatures and set them free to build their own lives.  And then the gods faded away as the
mana
levels could no longer support them.  In their place, humans who had learned to manipulate
mana
built the first global civilisations.  It was truly a time of wonders.”

He tried to read the Hunter’s expression, but it was difficult.  “There were dragons flying through the sky, mermaids swimming through the seas; dwarfs and trolls digging their way through the mountains, deep underground.  And there were the sorcerers who built and powered civilisation.  It was the sorcerers who led the battle against the other creatures created by the gods; it was the sorcerers who created beings such as yourself to defend humanity.  And so it was a golden age.

“And then disaster struck.  Thirteen sorcerers, each one powerful beyond imagination, believed that they could harness the power of
mana
directly and become gods themselves.  Other sorcerers moved to stop them, realising the danger of what they were trying to do, but they were already hideously powerful.  They raised vast armies to their banners, using them against their enemies and innocents alike.  It took seventy years of war to contain them and yet we could not remove them from existence.  They had done something to make themselves immortal.”

The Hunter leaned forward.  “What did they do?”

“I do not know,” Golem said.  If Enchanter had ever worked out the secret, he had kept it to himself.  It was temping to imagine that his creator was somewhere around, but preserving a human life in a world without
mana
would be far harder than preserving a clay-man.  “They could not be killed.  My creator eventually managed to seal the Thirteen into a prison that isolated them from the world, holding them in a realm where time didn't pass.  But their defeat came at a terrible price.”

He had agonised about how to explain the fall of civilisation to someone born long
after
the fall, so long afterwards that civilisation itself was nothing more than a myth, if that.  “Maintaining the prison required vast amounts of
mana
,” he explained.  “Over the years, the prison sucked in more and more
mana
from the source of power.  Eventually, the
mana
in the human world started to run out.  Spells that had endured for centuries collapsed, structures that had been held up by
mana
started to crumble into dust, sorcerers who used rejuvenation spells to keep themselves alive died...it was the end of civilisation.